Page 67 of Within These County Lines

Suddenly, there’s a single knock on my door. Then it flies open.

“Hi, Stetson,” Xander says, stepping in. Starburst wrappers fall to the floor around him like tiny toy parachutes. “Quit lying around and put some clothes on. We have a mystery to solve.”

“Hey!” I shout, scrambling from my bed and covering my crotch with my arms. “How did you get in my house?”

“Oh, relax.” He unwraps an orange Starburst and pops it into his mouth. “We just saw each other half naked in the river the other day.”

My face burns. I grab a pair of wrinkled khaki shorts from the floor and slide them on, then walk to my closet and sift through the five tops I have to choose from.

I look Xander up and down. He wears a baby blue Hawaiian shirt covered in navy and white palm leaves, cutoff jean shorts, and dirty Converses. “Is this party a luau?” I ask.

“Don’t hate on my style.” He gestures to his feet. “I was going for a classy red, white, and blue look. I got red socks. See?” He flashes his legs. “I haven’t been to a party where I could talk to someone in decades.” He grins. “Dress to impress, they say.”

“They do say that,” I affirm.

“Say what?” Whitley asks, walking through the doorway, wearing denim shorts, a white tank top, and a red bandana holding her hair back.

Xander retreats to a corner. My eyes bounce between them.

“About dressing nice,” I say, clearing my throat.

“Who’s dressing nice? Because it certainly isn’t you.” She plops a plastic bag holding three forty-ounce beer bottles onto my desk.

“Xander,” I mumble.

Whitley freezes, midway through opening one of the bottles. “The ghost is here? Where?” she asks in a whisper. “Oh my god.”

“She doesn’t have to whisper,” Xander says. “And I’d prefer it if she didn’t call me a ghost.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” I relay. “And he’d prefer it if you didn’t call him a ghost. He’s in the corner by my dresser.”

Whitley stares at him, or rather that part of my room, with her fingers touching her parted lips. “I thought it was supposed to be cold when there’s a ghost around.”

Xander sighs. “There she goes again.”

“That’s because he’s not a ghost,” I say. “He’s just cursed. Like me. Remember the witches?”

“Yeah . . . Yeah. The witches.” She waves a hand. “I’ve been looking them up all week. I’m only partly convinced.” I glare. “I got us invited to the party, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” I throw up my hands in surrender.

“Can I . . . say hi to the ghost—I mean him?” she asks.

I nod. She inches toward the dresser, arms outstretched like she’s feeling for an invisible doorway.

“Hello, Whitley,” Xander says as she gets closer.

“He says hello,” I repeat.

Whitley flinches. “He does?” Her poking hands turn into swats.

“You’re getting close.” I scratch my neck. “You’re going to hit him.”

“Can he feel it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. But it’s still rude even if he can’t.”

Xander’s back presses against the wall as Whitley’s arm sweeps right through his stomach. Blue and white particles swirl in the air like sand caught in the wind.